


I'll stop the whole world (I'm only human)

by orphan_account



Series: We belong to the stars, so let the moon worry about itself [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, My first long(ish) Starfleet fic would be for another fandom, Starfleet AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going to a bar on the night of the full moon <i>with his best friend who is also a werewolf</i>, and then having to watch him attract chicks and dudes by the sheer power of his wolfy magnetism in no way fell into his definition of the term “fun.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll stop the whole world (I'm only human)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd been thinking off and on about writing a Teen Wolf/Star Trek fusion for a few months, and then I read a fic today involving a special ops officer Derek and counselor Stiles, and I just decided to go for it.
> 
> This series will have some marked similarities to _Star Trek: AOS_ , particularly since the first scene that came to me when I originally thought of writing it was the scene between Stiles and Boyd.
> 
> Werewolves have adopted some of the methods of the Vulcans for controlling their more primal natures, which will become readily evident in the opening lines of this fic. Note that I say, "some" rather than "all," because werewolves suppressing all emotional reactions would be incredibly boring to write - and to read. Only the Vulcans can make that kind of thing interesting, and the best-loved Vulcan struggles with it like nobody's business.
> 
> The title for this fic comes from Paramore's _Monster_.

 

 

Tendrils of incense caressed his senses as he came gradually back to the real world. Rising from his spot in front of the meditation pot, he went through his usual series of pre-run stretches, snagged his ID and comm unit off of the kitchen table, and headed out the door.The campus flowed around him in a blur of old and new buildings, much like the sounds and scents of everyday life, mingled with the slow drift of leaves falling from the trees, their spicy decay tickling his nostrils and further arousing his thoughts.

The brisk pace of the run helped to dispel some of the pull of the moon on his raw nerves, but with the promise of its face shining down bright and full that night, little could be done to truly rid him of the prickling urge to shift. It wouldn’t be the first time the academy would bear witness to his lupine nature, but after six years of living on campus when he wasn't out in space, he had mostly learned to keep a handle on his instincts - his parents and siblings would be so proud if they could see him now, but Laura was out in the Black on a peace mission with one of the Federation’s more prominent ambassadors, and had been for the last two years. The less he thought about where the rest of their family was right now, the better.

Fire and ash flashed like wraiths in his eyes and nose, and he winced, acknowledging the fact that declaring the topic off-limits rarely succeeded in turning his mind toward safer paths. The oranges, golds, and reds of the trees served to remind him further still of that fateful day eight years ago, of launching himself off of the school transport and practically flying all the way home, Laura right beside him all the way. The sight that met them when they arrived was seared every bit as deeply into his soul is it was into what was once the Hale ancestral home, burned practically beyond recognition.

In many ways, the arrival of Vulcans and the subsequent formation of the Federation was a boon to the supernatural creatures who had for many years lived on Earth in secret, but not all of the humans were swayed by their message of IDIC. Many hunters clung to their old hatreds and suspicions with a tenacity that would have been admirable if it had manifested for almost any other purpose.

His wolf made another push for freedom, and Derek decided to take a detour, making his way toward the gym. With a rise in werewolves and other shifters enlisting in Starfleet, there should be someone available to help him work through his emotions without giving in to his more primal side.

Apparently luck was with him this morning in the form of his most arrogant - and, admittedly, one of his most advanced, in spite of this being his first year - students, clearly chomping at the bit for a way to work out his own aggression. “Cadet Whittemore.”

Rather than snap to attention, the young werewolf simply headed straight for one of the floor mats. “Commander Hale.”

Oh, yeah. With an attitude like that, the kid was clearly begging to have the snot kicked out of him. The sense of pack created by belonging to the same organization should have had the younger beta showing his superior due deference. That never seemed to work with Whittemore.

It was like he was constantly raring for a fight to put him back in his place.

That was a desire Derek had no problem with accommodating.

…

This was clearly a terrible idea.

This was a terrible idea, and Stiles was never indulging his best friend’s whims ever, ever again.

Going to a bar on the night of the full moon _with his best friend who is also a werewolf_ , and then having to watch him attract chicks and dudes by the sheer power of his wolfy magnetism in no way fell into his definition of the term “fun.”

“‘It’ll be awesome,’ he said. ‘I’ll be your wingman,’ he said. Yeah, sure, buddy. Wingman my great aunt Martha’s saggy ass.” He was bored and nervous - two things that should never, ever go together, but somehow managed to coexist quite well for one Stiles Stilinski.

Glancing around at all of the cadets and civilians mixing and mingling and generally having a great time, he sort of wanted to punch something. Wasn’t joining Starfleet, going through the advanced track to meet like-minded people, supposed to help with his status as a social reject? All it had really accomplished was landing him with a massive - seriously, it was so bad, it was beyond ridiculous and bordering on hopeless - crush on Lydia Martin, the resident rising star in linguistics, as well as the light of the most possessive jerk on campus’ life, and further cementing the understanding that Stiles would never fit in anywhere.

Spying a new face a few seats to his left, Stiles grabbed the drink he had been nursing and plopped himself down, ever ready for the next chance to strike out with someone fresh. He may have an epic desire for the lovely Lydia, but he still wanted to have some semblance of a life.

“Hey there.”

Dark, steady eyes settled on him and a soft, velvet voice uttered a simple, “Not interested.”

Stiles brought his free hand to his chest, affecting a deep emotional pain. “Hey, uncalled for. There should at least be a mutual exchange of names before you turn me down cold.”

“You’re Stiles Stilinski, the first year cadet who pisses Lieutenant Commander Harris off so often that you have your own chair in the Commander of Cadets’ office.”

“Oh. Okay, so maybe you do know me. I, however, have not had the pleasure of getting to know _you_.” He waited, staring at the guy with a polite air of inquisitiveness.

He kept waiting.

And kept waiting.

And kept waiting.

“So, is this the part where I assume you don’t have a name? Or maybe it’s one of those situations where you have one, but nobody knows how to pronounce it - which, believe me, I know all about the frustrations of parents who gift you with embarrassingly hard to pronounce first names. In fact-”

“It’s Boyd.” _Yes!_ Wait around long enough, and eventually, Stiles can wear them down.

Still, Boyd wasn’t really much to go on. “Boyd? Just Boyd? Not that there’s anything ‘just’ about it. Boyd. I like Boyd. It’s got this quiet strength to it, you know? A sort of mystique meets still waters that run deep effect and all that... So, yeah, Boyd, you have a last name, or what?”

He thought at first it would be another round of the waiting game, but then Boyd told him, with this look that just about screamed ‘Why me?’ “Boyd is my last name.”

“Oh.” Stiles nodded in a way that he was depressingly aware was not reflective of his genuine level of intelligence, and blinking his wide, light brown eyes. “Oh, of course it is. So, what’s your first name, then?”

“Is this idiot bothering you, Boyd?” This was so not what he needed right now.

Bristling, Stiles turned to face Jackson head on. “I resent that. Remind me again, Jackass, which of the two of us is in the top one percent of our class - sitting right up close with your girlfriend in a tie for first?”

He watched Jackson’s nostrils flare and winced, mentally berating himself. Why did he always have to bait the guy? Jackson Whittemore was actually not stupid - his test scores and spot in Starfleet Academy alone confirmed that - but he tended to rely more on his brawn than his brains, and that typically meant that any time the two of them were in the same vicinity, Stiles was only one wrong word away from getting his butt handed to him on a silver platter, without even the consolation of the silver marring so much as an inch of Jackson’s ridiculously perfect skin.

And ugh, bad Stiles. He was supposed to be focusing on not saying or doing anything that would lead to him being banned from the bar - even if he was stuck drinking soda. Age restrictions seriously sucked. You only had to be eighteen to sign your life away to a military organization, but couldn’t legally drown your sorrows in spirits until you reached twenty-one. Where was the justice?

Somewhere amid his mental rambling, Stiles must have let something especially irritating slip from his lips, because the thing that finally brought his mind back to the present was the hand crushing his windpipe.

“Jackson, come on, man. Let him go.” At least he had the comfort of knowing Boyd cared enough about the lives of cadets with a focus in How to Be a Nuisance to try and curb the homicidal tendencies of his pseudo packmates. “He’s not worth getting kicked out and you know it.” Okay, so maybe Boyd didn’t care. The guy was still attempting to talk some sense into the rage monster that wanted to end his life. This was a good thing, because air was seriously starting to become a problem - or at least, the lack of it was. Generally speaking, air was always something to be desired, and his lungs definitely were desirous of it right this minute. Really, any time now would be good for some oxygen to start flowing. “Man, if Hale comes in here and finds you like this -”

“Too late,” Scott announced, sounding a few breaths away from passing out or painting the floor with the contents of his stomach.

Oh, good. Scott. Where had he been this whole time, exactly?

If he was ignoring Stiles in favor of necking - hah, necking, as in necks, as in what was being squeezed with way too much force - he was totally revoking the guy’s best friend card. And the matching wristbands they made when they were nine.

…

He honestly didn’t know why he had expected the younger betas to show enough good sense to stay away from the rest of the town tonight. Every year, especially toward the first semester, he had to swoop in and kick some sorry young cadet’s irresponsible ass for going out and getting into trouble on the nights when the moon was full. Setting down the book he had finally had enough time to pick up for the first time in two weeks, memorizing his page - which was only three further than he had been when he settled in to start reading, because life hated him and his penchant for bound books - he followed the insistent pull of the tentative bond he had with the very cadet who he had taken down a peg just that morning, because he may have been the top of his hand to hand class, but he was still a turned beta, and Derek had been this way his entire life, placing age and experience firmly on his side.

Humility never stayed with Cadet Whittemore for long.

The anxiety filling the bar and the desperation from one person in particular alerted Derek that he may have arrived a little too late to prevent his student from doing any damage. He vaguely heard another beta - McCall: strong and controlled, but a little too naive and self-righteous for Derek’s taste - saying something before he let loose a commanding roar, striking genuine fear into the hearts of some of the onlookers, and succeeding in grabbing the attention of Cadet Whittemore, who yanked his hand back from the throat of the other cadet, leaving him clutching at the abused flesh and gasping like a beached fish.

Cadet McCall tried to dart forward, but Derek shot out a hand, snagging him by the collar of his uniform. “Betas outside, all of you.” When no one moved to obey, he flashed his blue eyes at them and snarled, _“Now.”_ They scurried out like the scolded pups they were.

Sometimes it was good to be the the alpha’s second - or whatever the equivalent of that was in the bizarre approximation of a pack they had within the ‘fleet.

He looked around at the remaining humans and aliens and sighed. This was going to be such a headache for their public relations department if it got out, and he had no illusions that it wouldn’t. The few hunters in the media who still had some sway leapt at each and every mistake werewolves and other members of the supernatural panoply made, much the same way they gleefully reported on incidents involving other races in the Federation.

Shaking his dark thoughts off like so much dust, he strode toward the figure now slumped over the bar. Taking in the ring of finger-shaped bruises already forming, Derek frowned. He was a human, then, and not one of the more resilient cadets. That was going to be a problem. Captain Deaton always radiated resigned disappointment whenever one of the young supernatural cadets lost control and harmed the more breakable members of the ‘fleet, as though he expected Derek to be able to control them better. It was a ridiculous notion, given that Derek hadn’t exactly been the pinnacle of good decision-making when he was younger, and the power of being the alpha’s second only held weight with the cadets who were also werewolves. That succubus who had gotten so out of hand last semester? Totally beyond any hope of Derek’s control, at least where the influence of her supernatural nature was concerned.

He raised his hand to set it on the cadet’s shoulder, hoping to set him at ease, even though getting touchy feely with those outside of the slowly expanding group of werewolves set Derek’s teeth on edge. A choked cough that otherwise might have been a laugh halted his hand’s progress. “You don’t have to do that, Commander. Scott’s told me all about your - uh - intimacy issues, for lack of a better term.”

As the cadet peeled himself up off of the bar and turned around, Derek stared at him blankly. Did this kid seriously just...? And then there was a pair of big brown eyes, rendered slightly glassy from the moisture which no doubt gathered in response to the pain of his fellow cadet’s attack, looking right back at him, and all Derek could think was, _Oh, great_ , because his mate would be a mouthy, mortifyingly young human who, more likely than not, would at some point wind up taking one of Derek’s classes.

Of course. Because life had a frankly reprehensible sense of humor, and Laura was going to laugh so much when he comm’ed her about this.

He heaved a world-weary sigh and told the cadet, “Wait here. I have some pups to deal with, and then I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine. I can get myself home just fine-” Yep. He was definitely mouthy. And he was _Derek’s_.

“ _Stay here_ , Cadet. That’s an order.” Derek willed himself to ignore the reluctant swell of pride he felt at the way the cadet tried to stare him down, and waited until he finally averted his gaze to a spot on the floor.

“Sir.”

Nodding once, Derek turned on his heel and went to deal with the idiot cadet who disturbed him in the first place. He was about to make their sparring session from this morning look like a game of footsie.

Telling himself that it had nothing to do with _who_ Cadet Whittemore had attacked was an exercise in futility, even though he had no real knowledge of his mate, other than the feeling of the bond which was already starting to form.

He’d deal with that later.


End file.
